inside your head (there's a record that's playing)
by wellthatdepends
Summary: Nashville AU: It's a dangerous road they're on. She's sees the flowers and the sunshine. He only sees the cracks. [Bethyl]


He escapes hell with nothing but his guitar and the clothes on his back.

Funny thing, his life. Even the cold, hard facts sound like a country song.

* * *

Oh, and there's Merle.

Yeah, there's always Merle.

* * *

Here's how they know that they've made it, according to Merle:

The smack is good.

The girls are fine as hell.

The record label lawyers have them on speed dial.

His spiel makes Daryl grunt with frustration. Same shit, different day; today it's a party. On a yacht. In their fucking honour.

Some days Daryl curses the redneck population, who still buy CDs and can't steal music like every other regular Joe. Curses them for sending their single to the top of the charts, much to the joy of his label and the chagrin of every other artist in this town. You can write a song as deep as the goddamn ocean, but at the end of the day, you write about girls and trucks and you're basically printing your own money.

And that, Daryl observes - label heads fawning over his brother like he cured cancer - is the bottom line. _Their_ bottom line.

_The Brothers Dixon_. Multi-platinum. Sold out national tour. The bad boys of country music.

Thank god they're still docked, otherwise he'd probably throw himself overboard.

* * *

She's all angles and long limbs, he discovers, when she bumps into him at the studio.

_Beth Greene_. He knows her name, knows her face. The label head sent them (_Merle_) a warning; _don't mess with this one. Don't even try_.

He expects sundresses and bright smiles, but instead she's ripped jeans and braids. Well-worn cowboy boots, from _actual_ farm work, not a dozen or so music festivals and rodeos.

"Watch it, kid," he snarls, steadying her by the elbow, her papers and notebooks littered on the ground.

If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it, to her credit. Bigger starlets have gone out of their way to avoid his presence. They can handle creeps like Merle easy enough. But him?

He's danger and darkness and, fuck it, they should cower. They _should_ be afraid.

Instead, she offers him a smile, ignoring his tone and murmuring a breathless_ thanks_. She kneels in front of him, collecting the loose papers that have settled and before he can stop himself, he crouches down, offering his silent assistance.

It's a mess of lyrics and sheet music and drawings and photographs.

"It's my inspiration," she says softly, his head jolting up after she catches him staring at what he assumes is a photo of her family.

Like a punch to the face, he's hit with the sudden yearning to be _her_ inspiration.

And, fuck, that's unsettling.

Scrambling to his feet, he feels too big for his body, as if the room and this girl are trying to suffocate him. He places some distance between them, heading towards his intended destination, without so much as offering a goodbye.

(Remember: Daryl Dixon doesn't do goodbyes.)

But this waif of a thing, blonde hair and blue eyes, nearly makes him freeze in his tracks.

"Good to meet ya, Daryl Dixon!"

He does not look back.

* * *

Merle, to his credit, doesn't get shitfaced before the show.

After, well, that's another story.

A story that involves an after-after party, Russian ballerinas, oxycontin, and Merle, butt-naked at The Parthenon.

_Give them what they want_ has always been Merle's philosophy about the media. And what they want is simple; a redneck jacked up on hillbilly heroin, singing Johnny Cash in nothing but his boots.

It's a misdemeanour and a fine, thanks to the label attorneys. It's child's play and a story for a radio interview.

"And what about you, Daryl," the DJ prods and pries, "that must just be a normal weekend for you?"

"Baby brother prefers the woods," Merle interrupts, laughing, "just his crossbow and the stars, pretending he's the last man standing, or some shit."

Pretending or wishing?

(Pick one.)

* * *

The second time he sees her she is singing on the main stage in a blue sundress at a festival that he's headlining. She has an early slot, but still the tweens gather, their screams loud as she finishes her happy, upbeat song.

(It's about kissing boys and running through fields and feeling like you're flying. He is not her target audience.)

There are a couple of covers thrown in for good measure: Taylor Swift and a countrified Beyonce hit (she plays the fucking _banjo_).

And Tom Waits.

The tweens sway to a song they've never heard and it's just her, her and her voice, no backing, telling them (_him_) to _hold on_.

With her, it's all about the realisations.

She's not the next Taylor Swift.

She's just _her_.

* * *

His first gig was in a dingy bar on the outskirts of town, with an unreceptive audience and only a couple of Benjamin's and a few watered down whiskeys as payment.

He gets a bottle thrown at his head and Merle glasses someone and they both land themselves in lock up.

His second gig, there's a label exec and Merle is sober enough to obtain his business card and a meeting.

And thus _The Brothers Dixon_ are born.

* * *

"You were great, Daryl Dixon!"

Over the roar of the crowd, the roar of the commotion backstage, he hears her. She is perched on an amp, still wearing her blue sundress and her old boots. Tilting her head to the side, she throws him a blinding smile.

"So were you." It's gruff, his compliment, and truth be told, he doesn't give that many. Doesn't receive many either, not sincere ones, anyway. He'd hardly call the over-educated pretentious critics ones to offer genuine praise.

"You enjoy the show, sweet thang?" Merle laughs cruelly, stripping out of his sweat-drenched shirt. Her eyes cast downwards.

"Want to come party with ol' Merle later on? I'll give you a real _insider_ look into the business."

"I'm just going to crash at the hotel," she says stiffly, pushing off from her makeshift seat.

"It's been a long day."

"Oh, but the night is young and so are we!" Merle grabs her arm, pulling her towards the stairs.

Beth jerks her arm away, standing her ground.

"You're not that young, Dixon."

"She's probably not old enough to get into the bar, anyway," Daryl interjects, packing away his guitar, "and I'm out. Call a cab if you need a ride. Not me."

Ignoring his brother's protests, he strolls towards one of the cars waiting to take the artists back to the hotel. She's hot on his heels, calling out his name.

"Can I ride with you?"

He shrugs in reply, but holds the door open so she can slide in first.

She's silent for most of the ride, before turning abruptly to face him.

"Twenty-one."

"What?"

"I'm twenty-one," she repeats, looking him in the eye, "I'm not a kid, I'm a grown woman."

"Who sings kid songs," he smirks and she frowns.

"I sing songs that relate to people of all ages."

"Can't remember the last time I 'sang like the world was ending' and 'danced like I was falling apart'."

She pokes out her tongue.

"Meanie."

He jabs her in the arm with his elbow, chuckling lightly.

"Twenty-one."

* * *

When Daryl was twenty-one, he was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, working at a scrap yard, waiting for Merle to get out of jail.

Truth be told, he sometimes misses those days.

But the truth isn't worth shit and it doesn't sell records and no one wants to hear about a man with an abusive daddy and a dead momma and a good for nothing brother. Those stories are a dime a dozen where he's from, best bottled up and left to gather dust. They are not sung about. They do not win CMAs.

People want an escape. They don't want to look in the mirror.

* * *

The third time he sees her, he stops counting.

Stops breathing.

It's another party, for another artist. He hates these obligations, usually stays away and lets Merle represent _The Brothers Dixon_ and say and do whatever he likes.

But this week, Merle's trying rehab (again). And their manager nervously tells Daryl that it 'can't be avoided'.

Avoid is exactly what he does. He sits in the corner, nurses a drink, and waits the appropriate amount of time before he can make an escape.

"Who you hiding from, Daryl Dixon?"

She is a vision in white. Some sort of honest to goodness angel sent to torture him or something. Because the way that dress hugs her curves is positively sinful.

"Not hiding," he mumbles, "avoiding."

She grins.

"You wanna avoid together?"

With an offer like that, how could he possibly refuse?

* * *

A week in rehab and Merle's still giving it an honest go.

Well, not entirely honest; there's a girl (there's usually a girl – or drugs) and Merle's getting his kicks by screwing her and sneaking pills. The label's happy; a clean Merle means a less unpredictable Merle and a failed Merle means he'll remain tabloid fodder.

She calls him when he's at his cabin. He doesn't get her message until he's in town, picking up supplies. There's not much reception in his part of the world, but he calls her anyway.

"Hey," she picks up on the first ring, "I want to write a song together."

He doesn't question why, just gives her the directions to his cabin and panics silently, chewing his thumb, waiting the two hours it will take her to arrive.

And when she does, she is holding her guitar and her old notebook filled with her inspiration.

Daryl's not sure why he agreed; the whole prospect is daunting and he doesn't know how he can help her write something light and pretty. There's not that much light in him to begin with. But the words come naturally and they harmonise well; him picking out and stringing together chords and her tapping her foot to provide a beat.

It's kind of fucking _great_, the music they create. She's a natural lyricist, and she captures the naivety of young love, and the element of danger that is giving away ones heart.

(It's a song about the bad boy being the _right_ boy, and god, it's like they're _trying_ to be obvious.)

"This is going to be great on the album," she grins, giddy with that high that only making music can bring.

"I'll credit you, of course. You did co-write it, after all."

"Nah," he mutters, popping his guitar to the side, "probably best you leave me out of this."

"Think it'll hurt your big bad reputation?" she teases, but he isn't laughing. Not about this. Not about her.

"More so yours." He says gruffly and her face visibly falls.

"I don't care about that, Daryl." She insists, "My brand is my honesty – to myself, to my fans. I don't hide behind publicists and I don't hide my friends."

"You don't want me as a friend, Beth," he sighs, "I'm just some redneck asshole with a bigger asshole as a brother. I'll just bring you down."

"I think we've proved the contrary." She simply smiles and part of him is frustrated that this girl can't take the hint, can't take the out he's giving her.

"It's a hit, I can feel it. This song…it's the start of something unbelievable and wild and crazy and amazing." She blushes at her rambling enthusiasm. "Can't you feel it too?"

_Her career or them? _There's a voice in his head asking the question he'll never voice aloud - not to her, not to himself in the dead of night. It's a dangerous road they're on. She's sees the flowers and the sunshine. He only sees the cracks.

But yeah, of course he feels it. It's so fucking tangible it could almost be _real_.

* * *

Their first day in the studio, she posts a photo on Instagram. He's bent over his guitar and she's bent over him and her caption simply reads _collaborating_, with a music note emoticon and a blushing, smiling, face.

For six perfect, blissful hours it's just them, in the studio, laying down their track. She is her harshest critic, pushing herself to get it _just right_. And he goes along with it – this is her baby, her first single off her soon to be debut album, and he's not going to be the one who screws it up.

It doesn't matter. He screws it up anyway.

Leaving the studio, she has a small frown across her features as she squints at her phone.

"Everything alright?" he drawls and she glances up at him, smiling distractedly.

"Yeah, I just have a lot more missed calls than usual…"

It's then they spot them, the reason her cell is blowing up like it is. The paparazzi lying in wait on the steps of the building, ready to swarm them like a herd of zombies.

That's the thing about social media. You give the universe a photo of the bad boy of country music and the next Taylor Swift and they're going to want more. They're going to want every detail of every second they've ever spent together and they won't stop until they get it.

"Where's your car?" he asks and she gives him a bewildered look.

"Is this because I posted that photo?"

He doesn't have time to think about that. He just wants to get her out of here, safe and sound.

"Car, Beth!" he snaps and she switches her attention back to the situation at hand.

It's not easy; they have to fight their way through the pack to reach her car. He tucks her close to his side, one arm around her shoulders, the other swatting away photographers who try and get too close. She doesn't say anything, just looks at the ground, ignoring them. He gets her to her car, pushes her into the drivers seat and barks a short _drive_ at her before turning and making his way towards his bike.

It's easy to tune them out; he's done this before, usually outside of courthouses or police stations. Generally Merle's the one yelling back obscenities, flipping them off and making empty threats. But through the roar of questions, he hears some jackass yell out _isn't she a bit young, Dixon_, and perched on his bike, he shoots them a glare, engine roaring to life.

"How about you all just fuck off."

It's not a question, it's a direction.

And he's gone.

* * *

Merle checks himself out early, using their tour as a reason, but really, it's boredom. He doesn't care about getting himself clean, not really. But it keeps the label happy to know he's making an _attempt_ and Merle knows where his bread and butter comes from.

He's not an idiot.

In true Merle fashion, he throws himself a welcome home party, complete with girls and booze and drugs. He's exchanged oxy for coke and for a moment he waxes poetically about the feeling of doing a line off a strippers stomach, trading one sin for another.

"You'd know all about sins, wouldn't you, baby brother?"

It was Merle, unsurprisingly, who gave him the most shit about Beth. Thought it was the funniest thing in the world when the label execs called _Daryl_ into their office to berate _him_ for causing a scene with their young ingénue.

Thought it was absolutely _hilarious_ how clips of him cursing at the paps was censored and replayed across all major country music outlets.

But as _hilarious _and _funny_ Merle thought the situation was, he was adamant about one thing. If he was hitting it, fine, good for him. If he was getting sappy and developing _feelings_, he needed to sort that out, and fast.

In this town it's all about image. _The Brothers Dixon_ don't roll over for anybody.

Her included.

* * *

A week after her single drops, she breaks some kind of country music record and she calls him.

(He was invited to the launch party, but didn't go. _Touring_, he'd messaged her, and in reply she'd send a sad faced emoticon. And looking at that stupid yellow face, he'd felt something akin to guilt.)

"What are you doing tonight?" She asks hurriedly, and he smirks, because she knows exactly what he's doing.

"Playing in Atlanta."

"After the show?"

"Nothing," he lights a cigarette, "got a 3pm flight."

"Good," she breathes, "great. I'm going to take you somewhere, okay?"

And it is more than okay. Because it entails her, waiting back stage, wearing jeans that might as well have been painted on and a cropped sweater revealing just the _right_ amount of midriff. And after the encore, after the noise of the full venue has died down, she practically _skips_ up to him, beaming, throwing her arms around his neck.

"You were great, Daryl Dixon," she smiles brightly, echoing the same words she had said to him a lifetime ago. He returns the embrace awkwardly, his hand gripping her elbow, while she buries her head into his chest.

Gently, he pushes her away, before she can feel his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. Because this is what this slight of a girl does to him: makes every sensation and emotion a thousand times stronger.

She's like Merle's drugs and booze and girls, all rolled into one.

Grabbing his bag, he follows her outside. Used to her Prius back in Nashville, he's caught off guard by the old red truck.

"Well, come on."

She doesn't tell him where their going, but he's got a clue. When they start to head north, he recalls her telling him about her family farm, a few hours north of Atlanta.

"You taking me to meet your folks?"

"Well, see where I grew up," she murmurs sheepishly, "but yes, my parents will be there."

"Christ, Beth," he sighs, running his hand through his too-long hair, "you really think that's a good idea?"

"We're friends, aren't we? I mean, you co-wrote my number one single. My _debut_ single. Taylor Swift sent me a cupcake basket! Do you know how many late night talk shows want me to perform? And don't forget your share of the royalties." She rambles, smiling ear to ear.

"I didn't do it for the royalties, Greene," he mutters and in the dark, he can make out a faint blush across her cheeks.

"I'm glad," she replies softly, her eyes firmly on the road. But something shifts, and he knows she feels it too.

* * *

It's just past 2am when they arrive at the Greene farm. The moon is full and bright, he can clearly make out the white farmhouse, with its wrap around porch and a large barn off to the side.

"Huh." He says quietly, stepping out of the truck, taking in the sight before him. He imagines her childhood would have been something out of a storybook and he feels a twinge he can't explain. Bitterness or loss, he knows if he thinks too hard about it, it won't be pretty.

"Come on," she smiles, "I'll show you the barn."

The doors are heavy, but quiet, and she feels around expertly in the dark for the light switch. Illuminated, he spies about five horses in their stalls, and she makes away towards the closest, stroking it affectionately.

"This is Nellie," she smiles softly, "I've missed you, girl."

He watches quietly as she murmurs softly to the mare, before turning her attention back to him.

"I spent most of my time here, anyway. Shaun and Maggie, well, they were older than me. Didn't want their kid sister hanging around. So I'd come here and read or sing or write in my journal. Nellie here knows all my dreams and fears and then some." He imagines this shy girl, wrapped up in her dreams, spilling her soul to the silence and the horses.

"Horses don't judge like people do," she says quietly, "they don't cause intentional harm. They aren't _cruel_."

It hits him how _beautiful_ she is. In the dim light, baring her soul. He wants her so much that it's tearing him apart and she is gazing up at him like he's something she sings about in her songs.

It knocks him askew.

So he takes a chance. Risks it all when he steps forward, effectively crowding her against the stall door. Takes her face in his hands, calloused fingertips tracing from her cheeks to her lips. She kisses them softly, hesitantly, her blue eyes meeting his, filled with a longing that mirrors his own.

Their first kiss is like an explosion; a build up of shared moments and suppressed emotions held together for far too long. It is all teeth and tongue and her small hands tugging at his hair while he props her up against the wall, her legs curling around him and pushing herself closer. She moans his name and it's lovelier than any song she's ever sung.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he growls and she grinds against him, voice needy and breathless.

"Don't you dare."

He carries her to the nearest vacant stall, a horse blanket covering the straw and she whines when he breaks the kiss. Lowering her down to the ground, he peppers her cheek, lips, neck with kisses. She meets his lips with equal enthusiasm, taking his breath away, both literally and figuratively and he lowers his forehead to hers, taking a few, quick breaths.

"You trying to kill me, girl?" he pants and she's grinning up at him, seductively.

"Nope. I'm trying to _fuck_ you."

_Holy shit._

She has too many clothes on; he all but tears the tiny sweater off her, hands pawing her breasts through her pink lace bra. He pops open the clasp, lavishing her nipples with his tongue, taking great glee in her short, breathless whimpers. She pushes the vest off his shoulders, followed by his shirt and he's so caught up in the moment that he _forgets_. Forgets about the scars and the weight they carry and when her hands trail from his biceps to his back, she looks him in the eye and she_ knows_.

(Her daddy is a vet. She's seen enough tortured horses to know what this is. Knows what caused them.)

And he finds that he doesn't care.

Kicking off their boots, he makes quick work of her jeans, cupping her through her matching pink panties, fingers finding their way inside, rubbing small circles around her clit. She's all but crying out and he has to silence her with his mouth, as she arches her hips to meet his hand.

Until suddenly she pushes him away.

"I want it to be _with_ you. Inside me. Not your fingers. You."

He feels impossibly hard within his jeans and her fingers work the buckle of his belt. She pushes his jeans down, and gasps when she discovers he's commando under there.

She's only twenty-one, he reminds himself. This is her first time with a _man_.

He positions himself at her entrance, making sure she's slick and wanting. And wanting she is - nails dragging down his back, her marks joining those of his past. He pushes forward and she's so tight and hot and _wet_ and he wants this moment to be the last thing he remembers when he dies.

Because she's going to kill him. Oh, for sure.

Beth is all hitched breaths and whimpers, raising her hips to meet his thrusts and he knows he's not going to last long, not with her wrapped around him like a vice. He's close and so is she; his fingers rubbing her clit as she grips his shoulders, babbling as she comes undone. And he follows suit, growling her name as she clamps around her, her wet heat spurring him on until he collapses, spent, beside her.

"Wow." She breathes and, yeah, _wow_.

They might have created together a hit single, but this, this is better than multi-platinum.

* * *

His tour continues and she remains in Nashville, working on her album. They Skype a lot (note: he buys a computer and learns how to use it, just for her), she plays him bits and pieces that she's working on and, well, they get creative in _other _ways.

He's always amazed how she's got more talent than half this town put together, and somehow, in the early hours of the morning, after his show and before she needs to be up and recording, they write and compose two more songs.

This partnership, this…_thing_ between them, it's unchartered territory. He's not used to someone bringing out the best in him, instead of the worst.

Well, most of the time.

He doesn't read the tabloids, but Merle does, revelling in his debauchery plastered across the newsstands. And when he shows him the photos of Beth and Zach Whatshisface, one fifth of country music's answer to One Direction, he sees red.

"What the fuck?" he hisses down the line, ignoring her cheerful greeting and the smile in her voice.

"Daryl." She sighs. "Please, let me explain."

"Are you fucking him?"

"What, no!" She exclaims, "It's a PR thing, I swear. A couple of dates, but…"

She trails off and he catches the hesitance in her tone.

"You calling it quits at one?" he fills in the blanks so she doesn't have to say it. "Did pretty boy try something?"

Her silence says it all.

"It doesn't matter, Daryl." She lets out a shaky breath and he feels his anger boiling to the surface.

"It does, baby!" He snaps, "You're mine, you hear? Next time I see that kid, I'm going to show him what happens when he messes with something that doesn't belong to him."

She giggles down the line.

"I'm not sure how to take this, Mister Dixon. On one hand, this possessive Neanderthal act is rather archaic and goes against all my feminist beliefs."

"And on the other hand?" he growls.

"It's pretty goddamn hot."

He swallows, imagining her on the other end, on her bed, in panties and a t-shirt and knee socks, twirling her braid around her finger.

"I miss you," he says gruffly and he hears her sigh.

"I miss you too."

* * *

On the eve of her album launch, she plays the Opry for the first time and she wants him there.

It's an institution, in their industry. He remembers the first time he played there, with Merle, and even his loud-mouthed jackass brother recognised the moment as something _pretty fucking great_.

Beth is a ball of nerves and anxiety and she pleads with him to play guitar, at least for their songs.

And who is he to not oblige.

She is full of energy, of life, and builds an easy rapport with the audience. She sings her own songs and a couple of covers, all well received. Her last three songs are _theirs_, and she welcomes him warmly to the stage.

"My good friend Daryl Dixon is going to be helping me out here, why don't we give him a warm welcome?"

The audience loves the two new songs as much as the debut. They're about distance; they're about kisses in the hay. They're about their history and their future and his heart is interwoven in this music they've created, just as much as hers.

For her encore, she sings an Irish fold ballad, and it's just her, no accompaniment, and it is _haunting_.

Backstage, he captures her by the wrist.

"You were great, Beth Greene."

Beaming, she pulls him down for a kiss and he can't bring himself to care who sees them because she positively _shined _tonight and him? He's just happy to bask in her light.

* * *

But she's twenty-one, remember?

And he has a good fifteen plus years on her and a criminal for a brother.

And when the label calls him in for a meeting, it's no shock as to what it will be about.

What is a shock is that sitting there; on the other side of the table is Maggie Greene, Beth's manager/pitbull/sister. Who didn't quite take a shining to him that morning on the farm.

"Dixon," she says in lieu of a proper greeting, tapping away at her phone.

"Mags," he retorts and she fixes him with a scowl.

The head of the label is a man who calls himself the 'Governor'. Too much ego and power make a volatile combination and it's a known fact in this town that he is a full-fledged psychopath.

"You need to end your…_relationship_ with Beth Greene." He states calmly, like it's something he tells people everyday.

"Go to hell," Daryl snaps and Maggie looks up from her phone, huffing indignantly.

"You're ruining her career," she glares, "you're ruining her _image_."

"Now, I don't care about your relationship," the Governor shrugs, "until it starts to affect my bottom line. The media loves a celebrity couple, but they get a bit uncomfortable when one half is old enough to be the other half's father."

"I ain't that old," he interrupts, "she ain't that young."

"You find a way to make the media accept this, fine."

"But you can't, can you?" Maggie questions, eyes narrowing, "I bet you can't accept it yourself some days. Break up with her. She'll write a bunch of songs about it and you can fade back into your brother's shadow."

Because is it really that easy, to step back into the darkness after all the time spent enjoying the sun?

He doesn't want to go back to how things were. But, more than that, he wants her to achieve her dreams and then some. He doesn't want to be the one to hold her back.

* * *

He breaks up with her on a Tuesday, in her apartment, at breakfast.

Daryl selfishly allows himself to have one last night with her, to touch her and taste her and memorize her little pants and whimpers and way she says his name like a _prayer_.

Over black coffee, he breaks the news. Lets her down as gently as he can. He's never broken up with anyone before. Never really had a relationship. Hell, he's not quite sure if _this_ qualifies, but it's damn close.

"I'm no good for you," he says, matter-of-fact, "your career is taking off and you need to carve your own path. You can't drag me along. I got my own music, my own band."

"You are good for me, can't you see that?" The girl has always been persistent. "You make me a better musician, a better songwriter, a better performer. This path…I thought we were travelling it together."

She looks so forlorn, like her heart is breaking right in front of him and he feels like the biggest jackass, but this is necessary.

She's got more talent than half this goddamn town remember?

"Well, you're wrong." His words make her visibly recoil. "It was fun, Greene. Great sex and great music. But we gotta move on with our lives. Find some fresh material and write something new. You don't want to be singing about the same broken bad boy for the next four albums, do you?"

It's a verbal slap in the face and she's clearly trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, Dixon," she swallows a sob.

She doesn't say much, just stares at her coffee and he takes that as his cue.

"Take care, Greene, good luck with everything," he shrugs on his jacket, "I'll see you round."

His phone beeps as he closes the door behind him. It's Merle and he forgets that today is the day that the CMA nominations are announced.

Beth was nominated for New Artist of the Year.

* * *

In the weeks that follow, Merle is riding a nomination high, single of the year _and_ vocal duo of the year and he embraces the media circus that surrounds them.

It's radio interview after radio interview and these DJs are quick to pry about Beth Greene and that Opry performance and their most recent collaborations.

"She's a great girl," he says awkwardly, "she's got so much talent, you know?"

"Easy on the eyes too, huh, baby brother?"

And the interviewer will laugh and Daryl will chuckle noncommittally and his mind will wander to her, how she's doing and if she's thinking about him.

He's thinking about her. Every waking moment of the day.

* * *

She calls him a week before the ceremony. It is a surprise, to say the least.

"They want me to perform our song," she says over the phone and his heart flip-flops when she refers to it as _theirs_. "I'll only do it with you."

And the choice is simple. As much as he can't be with her, he can't see her give up an opportunity like this because of him. So he agrees.

He doesn't see her until sound check, the day of the ceremony. It's funny how a couple of months feels like a couple of years and once again he's taken aback by her mere presence. She cast a spell on him, all those months ago, during their first accidental meeting in the studio. And no power in the universe can break it.

Playing with her, on that stage, well, it's as natural as breathing. They're not a country power couple, hell, they're not even a couple, but when the married superstars give them a knowing look, he tries his darndest not to squirm.

They're not together anymore. Fuck, they were never officially together to begin with.

"I miss you, you know," she says quietly back stage, once their sound check is complete, "I wasted a lot of tears over you, Daryl Dixon, but I still miss you."

"Beth…"

"I'm glad we didn't say goodbye," she murmurs, brushing his hand with hers, "I hate goodbyes."

"Yeah," he says softly, "me too."

* * *

One day he's going to tell her everything.

He'll tell his about his childhood, about his mother, about how she died.

He'll tell her about Merle and why he'll never leave him, why he'll always bail him out, why _The Brothers Dixon_ is more than just a band.

He'll tell her about the scars on his back and his father and the evil and the pain and the fear that they represent.

He'll tell her how he came to pick up a guitar. How it got him out of there. How it saved his life.

How she became his life.

Yeah, he'll tell her everything.

* * *

Beth is breathtaking in blue.

But, more than that, she is breathtaking when they announce her name, _Beth Greene, New Artist of the Year_.

And like that, his world spins on its axis and his centre of gravity shifts towards her.

He wants her. Wants to be there for her highs and support her during her lows. Wants to help coax the music out of her and shield her from the media. He wants everything and if he doesn't get it right that second, he thinks he'll explode.

How's that for revelations?

He's never more grateful for his aisle seat. As she makes her way towards the stage, beaming from head to toe, he intercepts her, grabbing her wrist as he moves to stand.

Daryl can't bring himself to care about the cameras or the label or _her sister_. Instead it's her small wrist in his hand, his other gripping her hip and a gruff _I love you_, passing through his lips.

(_I love you and I'm sorry and I promise I won't leave you for as long as we both live_.)

"I love you too."

And she kisses him, pouring into it every moment they were apart and yearning for each other, her free hand curling around his neck, tugging on his hair.

It takes every ounce of self-control to pull himself away and push her towards the stage. She's got an award to collect and fans to thank and there's always later.

There's always the rest of their lives.


End file.
